


you make it seem alright to be this vulnerable

by lovelypl4n3t



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mythology References, Nail Polish, SakuAtsu, Sakusa Kiyoomi is Bad at Feelings, covid pandemic au, miya atsumu is a good boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:53:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28710777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelypl4n3t/pseuds/lovelypl4n3t
Summary: He still puts up with Kiyoomi’s inane habits, how he compulsively pulls out a mask each morning and puts it on, how he has to wash his hands thoroughly before doing anything. Kiyoomi wonders if it ever impacts Atsumu or how the other feels for him, considering the fact they’ve been in a committed relationship for just over six months now. Is he ever exhausted by it? Ever tired of Kiyoomi's endless 'quirks'?(or: kiyoomi is anxious because of covid-19, and atsumu is a caring boyfriend)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Kudos: 105





	you make it seem alright to be this vulnerable

Sakusa Kiyoomi, contrary to popular opinion, is not Atlas. 

He doesn’t have the burden of the world on his shoulders every waking hour, even if it did feel like it sometimes. The bones of his shoulders aren’t crackling, snapping under the heaviness, his skin isn’t splitting open because of the force -- he’s just Kiyoomi. 

Quirky Kiyoomi, who hates germs and would willingly spend the majority of his paycheck on more bleach, more sanitary wipes, and a mass-order of surgical masks. Annoying Kiyoomi, who snaps back with more force than necessary. Stupid Kiyoomi, who’s cautious in game in regards to the tosses he receives, and who’s cautious in real life about things that shouldn’t be a problem, such as contamination, bacteria, and safety. 

Usually, it’s okay. He has Atsumu by his side, whispering the sweet nothings into his ears when it feels like the whole globe is at his door, watching and screeching how he’s so  _ different  _ and  _ weird.  _

Now, the globe is preoccupied with a pandemic. They couldn’t look at him. 

Sakusa is also preoccupied in quarantine with his boyfriend, cooped up in their shoebox apartment in down-town Osaka. They’d chosen it together because it was only a stone’s throw from their gym, where they were part of the professional volleyball team, the MSBY Black Jackals. That fact, at the current moment, now seemed absolutely useless purely because they were only allowed to leave the safety of their home for two things: essential services and a bit of exercise. 

A fat bit of good the last part would do. Kiyoomi was already dreading the suicide drills the team would do when they returned, pushed like dogs until their breaking points because they’d had one too many pieces of junk food or not enough exercise during the quarantine. 

Their apartment, for lack of better terms, feels like it is designed for either children or dolls. It has a bedroom, a living room, and a conjoined kitchen, and a small bathroom. So, in essence, it has three rooms. It’s a good price for what they were renting, (considering the fact it was in the middle of Osaka, of all places), and Kiyoomi could acknowledge that. 

However, it doesn’t change the fact that being cooped up in such a small space is driving Kiyoomi absolutely nutty. 

There’s a voice in his head that is constantly screaming at him, the tone reverberating until he has to stuff his head under a pillow to quell the noise but that’s entirely useless. It’s all inside his head.  _ don’t go outside, don’t go outside, don’t go outside.  _

_ danger danger danger.  _

_ sick sick sick.  _

He hates it -- it’s absolutely relentless. Does it ever get tired? Does it ever go to bed like the host does?

He’s not entirely sure. 

He’s also not entirely sure why it matters, in the whole scheme of things. 

That’s probably why he’s on his hands and knees, scrubbing their kitchen until the odour of bleach is probably able to be smelt from a good mile or two away. He’s inhaled some of it already, but what can it do? Make him even more weird? Been there, done that. 

Cleaning is almost therapeutic, in a way. It’s methodical and a surefire way to get rid of all germs and bacteria that have called his kitchen floor their home, and it kills  _ everything.  _ Including human skin cells, he’s found out when he accidentally got some on a cut on his knee, so many years ago. He hasn’t made the same mistake twice, because the words, ‘once bitten and twice shy’, in his opinion, very clearly relate. 

It was like his knee had been set afire, hot ribbons of crimson licking the skin and melting what flesh he had. In actuality, it wasn’t like that -- it was just that familiar liquid seeping, eating away painfully. He remembers learning about it in school, how the bleach molecules rip apart any others they come into contact with, regardless if they were skin cells, bacteria cells, or any other -- needed -- bodily part. 

Kiyoomi deems the floor  _ clean enough, _ even if it will never be. There’ll always be little spots of dirtiness crawling around, the first step in a domino effect that undeniably leads to either him or someone he loves getting sick and possibly dying. Atsumu has consoled him many times, mid-cuddle session, saying the same things: a little bit of grime never did anyone any harm. 

He still puts up with Kiyoomi’s inane habits, how he compulsively pulls out a mask each morning and puts it on, how he has to wash his hands thoroughly before doing anything. Kiyoomi wonders if it ever impacts Atsumu or how the other feels for him, considering the fact they’ve been in a committed relationship for just over six months now. 

“Do you… Is this weird?” He says one day, just having finished disinfecting all their doorknobs, bathroom faucets, and bedroom side tables. He’s just taken a reliable, calming shower, letting the water cascade over his fatigued body and  _ finally  _ allowing himself the indulgence of relaxing. 

“What?” Atsumu doesn’t even bat an eye, gesturing for him to take a seat next to him on the couch. The spot next to his boyfriend has always been his favourite, even if skin-to-skin has been a recent development. 

Kiyoomi hesitantly places himself next to Atsumu’s unyielding warmth, resisting the urge to snuggle even closer and plant his head on the other’s shoulder. “Like…” He pauses to find an example. It’s not hard, though. The evidence of Kiyoomi’s borderline obsession is littered around their apartment from the countless bottles of bleach he knows are stored in a cupboard in the kitchen, the heavy-duty pack of surgical masks by the door, and the infiltrating smell of bleach. 

It’s like a hospital. Hygienic, plain, informal. Isn’t Atsumu sick of it? 

“Like, all of the cleaning. All of the masks. It-It’s not normal.” It’s all he can do to lessen the appearance of the breakage in his words as he spits them out. 

Atsumu’s lazy, flippant grin has been wiped clean from his face. His eyes are serious, and this is new. Atsumu is almost never serious. He lives for the fun, for the stupid schemes Hinata and Bokuto cook up almost every week and wreck havok everywhere they go. 

It’s uncharacteristic of him. 

“What’s this about, Omi-kun? Ya know I love ya.” His voice is that reassuring kansai-ben drawl, and Kiyoomi feels like burying his head in his hands and waiting for the world to just  _ piss off.  _

“Like, you could have anyone you wanted. Anyone. And yet,” he halts momentarily. “And yet you chose me.” 

And suddenly the words are out in the open. He immediately regrets it, wanting to swallow them back and make sure they can never escape, because they’re so  _ stupid.  _ So fucking stupid. 

“The quarantine is gettin’ to ya?” Atsumu tuts, snaking an arm over his shoulders. In this light, Atsumu’s usually straw-like hair appears golden -- like the sun. It’s like the sun’s rays have been personified to match his hair, the heat and colour coming directly from the galaxy. 

Atsumu’s answer, if you could call it that, sparks a resolution in Kiyoomi. Perhaps the burden of the pandemic has been hefting on him, pushing his shoulders until the cartilage creaks and eventually breaks in a string of pain-related curses. Perhaps he is Atlas, after all. Bearing a burden no one else has, this constant  _ fear.  _

“I think so.” Kiyoomi says, inhaling deeply and running a hand through his dark curls. They spring back up at his touch like they’ve always done, obscuring his vision slightly. 

His boyfriend suddenly bursts to life in a stream of what can only be described as Atsumu, gleaming happiness and insane hyperactivity. “I know what’ll help you!” He bounds off the couch, leaving Kiyoomi instantly missing his presence as he disappears into their bedroom, materialising five seconds later with a small item in his hands. 

Atsumu proudly shows it off like a cat displaying their kill, and Kiyoomi’s eyes are drawn to the intricate delicacies of the thing -- nail polish. 

It’s a gorgeous rose hue, from what he can see without opening it. 

“Nail polish! Ya need’ta relax, Omi-kun. I figured this would do’ya some good.” 

And he’s not wrong. 

With a devilish grin that creeps across his face, Atsumu takes Kiyoomi’s left hand and lays it on the coffee table that sits adjacent to their scruffy couch. Kiyoomi’s always hated the thing, but Atsumu is a cheapskate and had argued for hours that it was perfectly good, and they didn’t need to spend money on another one. 

Kiyoomi severely doubted him, but in a one-in-a blue moon occurrence, let it go.

Atsumu twists open the cap, letting the smell permeate the surrounding area and the colour onto the tiny, bristled brush that’s provided in the lid. He was right -- it is a beautiful red, reminiscent of the same colour they wear for the Japan’s National Volleyball team, set to compete in the Olympics later that year. 

His hands are shaking as Atsumu dips the brush in carefully, capturing some polish and begins spreading it on his immaculately-cared for nails. Atsumu had always preached hand care as a nationally ranked setter, saying that his hands were his weapons in the same way that Kiyoomi’s spin was his own. Now, it had paid off, he supposed.

“Be careful, Atsumu. It stains things, and you’re not the one who’ll have to get it out.”

“I will, Omi-kun! Don’t worry your pretty little head over me.” 

“I won’t. But if you spill it, you’ll be the one that’ll have to worry.” 

“It’ll be okay, baby!” 

The colour is a contrast against his pale skin, like blood. 

Kiyoomi loves it, even if he won’t admit it aloud. 

It’s like his own little piece of Atsumu to take with him everywhere he goes, a defence against the endless people who stare at him on the norm. Like his own little personal corner of the universe.

Sure, the paint is wonky. It bleeds against his skin, staining it that ravishing colour and he picks at it afterwards, relishing in how it effortlessly peels away. Of course, that’s after he’s done Atsumu’s nails in the same colour. 

His go isn’t much better than his boyfriends -- goopy and messy, but hey! His worries seep away like Atsumu thought they would, disappearing until they’re caged in the back of Kiyoomi’s mind. His tongue pokes out of his mouth as he focuses hard, determined to make the polish submit to his desires much like the volleyball does.

It doesn’t exactly go his way, so to speak. 

When Atsumu’s nails dry, the two survey their afternoon’s work. It’s not good, speaking matter of factly, but it’ll do. They have all the time in the world to practise, correct their technique, and master the art of painting nails. Or, as long as Japan’s lockdown lasts. At the rate it was going, neither had any idea when they’d be on the court again.

Sakusa Kiyoomi may be Atlas, but he has something the original titan didn’t have -- an Atsumu, standing by his side. He helps Kiyoomi relieve the unrelenting weight by lending his shoulders and lines of elegant, corded muscle. It’s an alteration from the canonical figure, baring a curse to stand beneath the heaviness of the terrestrial earth for all eternity as a punishment for picking the wrong side in the war against the Olympians. 

It’s a change that is welcomed with nights of quiet, Kiyoomi feeling less prickly, and Atsumu going out of his way to keep his lover’s comfort items on his person at all times -- a baby-sized container of hand sanitiser, disinfectant wipes, and a small collection of masks. Who knew such a simple change could open so many doors, leave so many unlocked and a key in the couple’s possession. 

No longer is Kiyoomi alone in his struggles, no longer is he the  _ Atlas Telamon,  _ feared by all and loved by none. No longer is he the Enduring Atlas, stuck under the bulky mass of the globe and unable to be liberated in fear of being injured. 

He is  _ eleftheróno _ , alleviated of the pressures of the world and the stress that was gnawing at his common sense, logic, and the control he has over his own thoughts. 

He’s freed.

The nail polish is a nice reminder of that. 


End file.
